


Steel

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Jon Snow, Light Bondage, Multi, Septa Sansa, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 14:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11557488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Margaery had come to King’s Landing to wed a King? Well, Sansa wished to see just how far she would go to win one.





	Steel

It had begun as something close to revenge. Not _true_ revenge – Sansa thinks she might be incapable of such a thing, even if she had been inclined to it – but an exercise of power of sorts. The sort of power Sansa had lacked entirely all those days in King’s Landing, desperate for Margaery’s family to save her and desolate when they’d left her flat and friendless and wed to her enemy. Margaery had come to King’s Landing to wed a King? Well, Sansa wished to see just how far she would go to win one.

Judging by the sinuous writhe of Margaery’s body as her hips hitch and buck to provoke Jon out of teasing her ache and into satisfying it, Sansa thinks she’s willing to go quite far indeed.

The scarf binding Margaery’s wrists above her head, fixing them to the bedstead, was an impulse on Sansa’s part. She’d wanted to tease Margaery with her powerlessness. She hadn’t counted on how affecting the limitation might be, both for Margaery and for Sansa herself. Even bound and whimpering for Jon’s touch, Margaery is effortlessly graceful and lovely, her warm hair shining like silk on the pillows around her, her skin creamy and covered with the daintiest flush. It could make Sansa bitterly envious. Instead it makes her wish to stoke Margaery’s ache with her own fingers. Jon gives her a curiously tender smile, curious given that he lies between Margaery’s legs, his lips and tongue and teeth teasing the soft skin of her inner thighs, his fingers tucked into shadowed places that have her mewling and twisting and panting with need. He’d predicted this, Sansa’s lack of aptitude in matters of revenge. 

“I don’t doubt the steel of your spine, love,” he’d said when Sansa had bristled at his skepticism. “I just know the softness of your heart.”

“My heart isn’t soft,” Sansa said, annoyed. “Not anymore.” They both knew it to be a lie. Sansa only proves it when she can’t resist smoothing one hand over the sweep of Margaery’s belly, her fingers skimming the fine dusting of golden hair that makes Margaery’s every curve glint in the firelight.

“Sansa,” Margaery says, just on the edge of a whine. “I can’t bear it.” This is the power Sansa had wanted; she’d wanted Margaery Tyrell helpless and desperate. Sansa’s satisfaction at achieving such a thing has an entirely different tenor than she’d planned. Her smile now lacks the calculating edge it had held when Margaery had first seen her in Jon’s bedchamber, her eyes wide with recognition and realization that the Septa rumored to have King Jon’s ear was the King’s onetime sister, and that she had far more than his ear. She’d wanted Margaery to break then; now she only wants her to come apart from the pleasure that Sansa has known from Jon so often and so well.

“What can’t you bear?” she asks. “What do you want?”

“I want his mouth on me,” Margaery gasps, straining at the scarf binding her wrists, her heels hooked over Jon’s arms in a futile attempt to gain some measure of control. Jon is immoveable. He’ll only satisfy Margaery’s demands at Sansa’s order. That sort of power has become familiar to Sansa in these many moons as Jon’s unseen guide in the realms of politicking and diplomacy, and in these many moons of sharing his bed, but still it thrills her, Jon’s ardent devotion to her own desires stirring the most potent desire of all. She had intended to tease Margaery with it, but she finds herself eager for Margaery to know how skilled Jon is, how exciting his heady attention can be, how devastating his tongue. It’s a rather unseemly urge to show off, Sansa fears, but it’s hardly the worst of her sins.

“His mouth _is_ on you,” she teases, stroking her hand lower, putting gentle pressure low on Margaery’s abdomen, knowing that as sensitive as she must be now, each tug feels like a caress. Jon watches the motion of her hand hungrily, his own desire barely leashed. She does not question his devotion to her, but she knows that Jon’s love for women is a constant thing, no matter that he keeps to only one partner. He wants his mouth on Margaery near as much as Margaery does.

“ _Please, _” Margaery cries out, her voice echoing the need on Jon’s face.__

__“Jon will do nothing without my command.” It’s something of an overstatement; certainly Jon is waiting in readiness, drawing Margaery tight as a bowstring as he awaits Sansa’s direction, but there’s only so far she can push him to tease, she thinks, before his own desire – and his innate inclination to give a woman pleasure when pleasure is what’s desired – wins out. “Tell me what you wish, Margaery.”_ _

__“I want him to taste me,” Margaery pants, a sheen of perspiration beginning to show on her skin, her flush deepening in pretty patches. Idly, Sansa wonders what Jon sees from his vantage point. She wonders if the soft pink of Margaery’s chest and knees and belly shows between her legs as well, if the shine of sweat and need collects in the creases and nooks only a breath away from his mouth. What would Margaery do if Sansa bade Jon stop? she wonders. If they left her like this, desperate and needy and damp. At the start of the evening, Sansa had intended to do just that, an intimate sort of retribution for the hope that the Tyrells had dangled before Sansa until they whisked it away again. She’d not counted on feeling just as desperate and needy and damp herself._ _

__“Jon.” Sansa needs to give no other instruction. With an appreciative sound, Jon finally – _finally_ – drags his tongue up to set it flat against Margaery before beginning to sup upon her like she’s a ripe peach. For the first time this night, the sound that comes from Margaery’s lips is not pretty or sensual or lovely. It is animalistic, raw and broken and grateful. Sansa remembers the first time Jon tasted her like this. Just thinking on it gives her the urge to echo Margaery’s broken sound._ _

__If Margaery presents a picture so potent that Sansa feels near her peak simply watching her, Jon does no less. It’s strange and new and perfect to see him with someone else, doing all the things Sansa’s body remembers with crystal clarity. She can nearly feel the ghost of Jon’s tongue on her, but now she can also see it in pink flashes as it curls and laps at Margaery. She can see how his fingers press into the lush yield of Margaery’s hips, how the flesh dimples as Jon lifts her up to his mouth. She can see the bunch and stretch of muscles in his arms and his back, the way he presses his hips to the mattress in a long, rolling rhythm. She can see for herself just how ardently and tenderly he dismantles a woman._ _

__“Is he not skilled?” she finds herself murmuring, sliding down to lie beside Margaery and dragging her hand up to curve over Margaery’s ribs just below her perfect teardrop breast. Margaery’s heart beats a wild tattoo beneath Sansa’s palm. “He devours you like you’re sweetened cream. Does that please you?”_ _

__“Gods, _yes_.” It’s the way Margaery sounds entirely unhinged that spurs Sansa on, changing her into some heady, hedonistic creature, not Jon’s prim onetime-sister-turned-Septa. With Jon, Sansa has discovered her capacity for pleasure, but the presence of Margaery has unleashed something altogether more wild in her._ _

__“Does she taste as sweet as she looks, Jon?” Sansa asks, surprising herself at the sensual purr of her voice, at the scandalous daring of her words. Jon only moans appreciatively in answer, looking at Sansa with half-lidded eyes. “Sweet Margaery,” she says, affecting an idly curious tone. “Is it normal for a man to so enjoy… Oh, what is the vulgar phrase for it? Eating a woman out?”_ _

__“Sansa,” Jon groans, his voice muffled against Margaery’s flesh, surprise and desire evident in the single word._ _

__“I’ve had no man but Jon,” she continues. “Is his desire to taste a woman common? Have you had another man like Jon?”_ _

__Margaery stutters out a choked laugh. “I think you know the answer to that.”_ _

__“Mmm,” Sansa smiles. “I thought not.” As if to prove his liking for his current activity, Jon seams his mouth about Margaery and sucks at her, his tongue sounding out wet and evocative even over Margaery’s cries and whimpers, over the rush of their breath and the rustle of linens. Margaery twists desperately, pulling at the scarf, her fingers grasping at the air as if she’s desperate to reach for Jon, to hold his head to her as his tongue delves and laps. Responding as if her own body is controlled by Margaery’s desires, Sansa reaches out to tangle her fingers in Jon’s hair, urging him closer, tugging until his eyes flutter nearly closed into crescents of white between dark lashes._ _

__“I’m beginning to feel left out,” Sansa says, an exaggerated pout on her lips. She isn’t, in truth. All she feels is achy and needy and _hot_ , but something in her wants to tease, to play. Instantly she feels Jon’s touch as he levers her knees apart with his fist, then slides his rough palm up the inside of her thigh. His fingers curl around the back of her leg, his thumb stroking over her where she’s already as wet as she’d be if it were she beneath his mouth rather than Margaery. “Oh,” she shivers, “ _oh._ ”_ _

__“So wet,” he groans, pulling away from Margaery just long enough to lick his lips. It’s as if they’re coated with the sweetest nectar, the way he shudders in pleasure at the taste. Sansa had no idea watching him make love to another woman would be so potent. She has half a mind to keep him supplied with women until the end of time, as long as it’s always like this._ _

__It takes little for Sansa’s body to reach its peak. She shivers into a small crisis that grows, building all the more so when Margaery’s back arches up off the mattress and she closes her thighs around Jon’s ears to hold him as she comes. Even so muffled, Jon’s appreciative moan is clear; his hips jerk against the bed and Sansa knows he’s coming along with both of them in a miracle of timing that makes everything seem magical. A different sort of magic than dragons and spells, to be sure, but magic all the same. Margaery shrieks, and Sansa laughs, startled. She would never have imagined Margaery’s sweet, placid façade could shatter so thoroughly. It makes her want to know what else Jon can make Margaery do. What she and Jon together can make Margaery do._ _

__In that moment, something inside Sansa begins to heal. Something she didn’t know was still wounded._ _

__None of them speaks for some time. Jon lies panting, his head resting on Margaery’s thigh, his thumb still tucked between Sansa’s legs. Pins prickle in Sansa’s arm when she shifts, her flesh numb from having lain on her side for so long. With a pang, she imagines how Margaery’s arms must feel, still tied above her head. It’s strange to imagine that only hours ago, she relished the idea of causing Margaery discomfort. Impulsively, she turns her head to place a soft kiss on the slope of Margaery’s breast, ignoring the curiosity that urges her to slide lower, to taste the soft, pink tip, to pull it into her mouth and suckle like a babe. She can’t forget the way she was abandoned here, not truly, but perhaps they’ve found a road that could lead to forgiving._ _

__“Your arms must hurt,” she says. “I’ll untie you.”_ _

__But Margaery surprises her._ _

__“Don’t!” she says, twisting away when Sansa would free her hands, dislodging Jon from her hip with the motion. Her cheeks flame and she glances at Sansa and then looks away. Suddenly she seems young, and very nearly vulnerable, in a way that touches a part of Sansa she hadn’t known was there. “That is, not yet. If you please.”_ _

__Sansa feels her pulse beat heavy between her thighs, and she glances down at Jon, who quirks a wry brow at her, as if to remind her of what he’d said on the softness of her heart before, and then gives an emphatic nod. Sansa deliberately keeps her voice light, not giving anything away to Margaery._ _

__“I suppose we can indulge you at least a bit more.”_ _


End file.
